


bustin makes me feel good

by nutbuster



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Facials, M/M, Oral Sex, Slime, Wet & Messy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-17
Updated: 2017-08-17
Packaged: 2018-12-16 16:44:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11832819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nutbuster/pseuds/nutbuster
Summary: dirk and john explore johns bizarre kink





	bustin makes me feel good

Your first moment of gut-churning, horrifying self-realization occurs as a complete accident. 

Let’s backtrack. 

You’re spending time at Jane’s and fulfilling your duties as a paradoxical brother and grandfather and son (and so on) by lending a helpful, supportive ear to her life problems. By which you mean, playing puzzle games on your phone while she paces around her kitchen stress-baking and telling you about whatever fresh hell she’s made for herself at Crocker Corp. The word “incentivize” has been used. “Harvesting efficiencies.” “Strategic dynamism.” 

“Synergy,” you contribute absently as you swipe into a combo. 

You hear her quietly grunt “aw, shit”. The change in tone snaps you out of your reverie and you look up. She’s standing with her hand on her hip, looking down into a mixing bowl with her nose twisted up. 

“What’s up?” you say. 

“I wasn’t paying attention,” she says. She points over to two otherwise-identical little boxes—one with a blue label that says _confectioner’s sugar_ and the other with an orange label that says _baking powder_. 

“Haha, whoops,” you say helpfully. 

“I’ll just trash it,” she says. “There’s no salvaging it at this point.” 

She’s about to dump it all down the garbage disposal when the evil idea surfaces in your brain, deep from the murky waters of your id. 

“Hold on,” you say. “Can I see that?” 

She hands the bowl to you. “Sure thing, but it’ll taste like sour milk.” 

“I’m not gonna eat it,” you say. It’s sticky and chunky, but you add a little milk to it and stir it evenly until it turns into a smooth, wet sludge. “I’m going to dump it all over Dirk’s head when he comes over. You got any food coloring?” 

She giggles wickedly and starts rifling through her pantry. Of course she’s on board. She’s the only person you know who appreciates the value of a good monkeyshine. “How about a nice green,” she says, handing you a little drop-bottle of condensed bluish fluid. “A classic. Like Nickelodeon slime.” 

“Yes!” you shout victoriously. The dye is potent enough that only a few drops turns it a bright, almost radioactive green hue. 

You go home and you dump it all in the barrel of a Super Soaker and you invite Dirk over with a quick little flirty text that ends in _bring a change of clothes ;)_ and because Dirk is Dirk you hear him buzzing your doorbell less than twenty minutes later and you swing the door open and nail him directly in the face with a direct and highly concentrated spray of green slime. 

It is the perfect plan. Every piece slid perfectly into place. You are a mastermind. 

But there was one factor you failed to account for. 

Dirk is frozen stock-still on your front doorstep, face and hair and stupid anime glasses covered entirely in a thick coat of sticky green slime, silent as it drips off his chin onto his chest and his shoulders. 

And you get a boner. 

He takes his glasses off and there’s a perfectly clean silhouette of unsoiled skin left around his eyes. It would be the funniest fucking thing you’d ever seen if your mind wasn’t running a million miles an hour, tripping over itself trying to figure out why the sight of it makes your dick hard. 

“Okay,” he says. He tries to wipe his shades off for a second and then, once he realizes that is a fruitless endeavor that only smears the stuff all over the lenses, tucks them into the neckline of his shirt with a quiet resignation. “Now your text makes sense. I don’t know what I was expecting.” 

“I slimed you,” you say quickly. 

“Yes, I’m aware.” 

He’s not even looking at you, his eyes are closed while he tries to wipe all the gunk off his face. But you’re now paranoid that he’s going to see your boner and make fun of you for it. This cannot happen. He cannot turn your own prank on you. You must maintain control of the situation. 

“You know, like in _Ghost Busters_?” you say. You replay, in your mind’s eye, the unparalleled comic genius of Bill Murray knocked on his ass, covered head to toe in shiny, wet slime. It is a cinematic masterpiece, and absolutely not a sex thing at all. 

Except then your dick twitches. 

_Oh no._

“I’m familiar with the film,” he says, shaking the excess slime off his hands and onto the pavement. “You okay, man? You’re looking kind of red.” 

“Don’t try to change the subject!” 

He wasn’t suspicious before, but he is now. He tilts his head and squints his eyes at you a little. 

“Is this…” he says slowly, like he’s putting the pieces together in his head, which is the last thing in the world you want him to do. “Is this, like, a fetish thing?” 

Your mouth falls open and you stammer. “Of course not, it is normal. Don’t be weird.” 

“I’m not being weird, you’re the one who blew your ghost wad all over my tender, unsuspecting body before I even made it into your house.” 

“That’s so gross, don’t say that,” you whine, trying all the while to ignore your boner standing eagerly at attention. 

He’s looking at you very intensely, green slop dribbling slowly down his temples, and as ridiculous as it is it feels like you’re staring into a fucking floodlight. 

“I was joking, but I was right, wasn’t I?” he says. “Is it the slime in general, or is it sliming me specifically that’s getting you going?” 

“Nothing is getting me going,” you insist. “I am not going anywhere, except perhaps on a victory lap to celebrate how hard I owned you with my Super Soaker prank.” 

He stops giving you that interrogative glare and his posture relaxes in surrender. “Fine,” he concedes. He smacks his lips a couple of times, like when you give a dog peanut butter. “What the fuck, this tastes like sour milk.” 

Oh, he got it in his _mouth_? Now you’ve taken a transfer from the “I hope these cargo pants are decent” shuttle straight onto the cross-country “shifting awkwardly and holding your Super Soaker very strategically in such a way that Dirk hopefully won’t see the tent in your shorts if he looks” bus at the “What the fuck! What the fuck!” station. You don’t know why _that_ does it for you. You don’t know why _any_ of this is doing it for you. 

He’s running his hands slowly through his hair as if to double check that, yes, it is indeed thoroughly trashed. That pomade fought valiantly but it was hopeless against an onslaught of milk and butter and baking powder. Now it’s pulled back and lifeless and sticking out in weird places and it’s really, _really attractive, god, what the fuck is wrong with you_

“You wanna take a shower?” you say quickly, maybe a little too loudly. You sound out of breath. You hope he can’t tell. 

“No, I think I’m gonna rock this look for the foreseeable future,” he says flatly. “Of course I’m going to take a shower. Sure you don’t want to snap a photo of this for your spank bank?” 

You groan theatrically, throwing your head all the way back. 

But while he’s in your shower, scrubbing slime-batter out of his hair, you do some thinking. 

Sure, you’ve always been really into slime. Maybe you’re into it a little bit _too_ much, but you’re into a lot of things a little too much. You always figured it was just one of your weird quirks, getting hyper-fixated on inconsequential things. Like you’re into pranks. And you’ve always seen the act of sliming as the apex of the art, the quintessential jape. And you always get an adrenaline rush and a surge of victory when you pull off a successful prank. It’s just magnified when you’re talking about sliming, the god-king of practical jokes. This is normal. This is how everyone feels, you think. You’ve never been everyone, but you are pretty sure. 

It makes you feel hot and excited and ashamed to think about and you don’t know why. 

Dirk goes the rest of the weekend without bringing it up again, and so you do what you always do with feelings of shame. You do your absolute damndest to push it down and pretend it doesn’t exist. 

In spite of your efforts, the second terrifying moment of self-realization arrives the next day. 

\-- timaeusTestified [TT] began pestering ectoBiologist [EB] at 16:09 --

TT: So what, precisely, is the appeal?  
TT: Bear in mind this isn't a value judgement on my part. Just trying to pinpoint the eroticism as an outsider.  
EB: the appeal of what.  
TT: The slime thing.  
EB: oh jesus.  
EB: also i do not know what you are talking about.  
TT: I'm familiar with wet and messy fetishism as a concept. But it's such a broad category, I don’t even know where to begin attacking this thing.  
TT: It's like when somebody says they're into BDSM. That's a spectrum that covers everything from handcuffs to the searing-your-dick-off-with-a-branding-iron 120 Days of Sodom shit.  
TT: It's a beautiful, diverse rainbow of sexual depravity and I want to know where you fall on it.  
EB: okay, well, first of all, please do not talk about searing anybody's dick off when you are trying to get me to disclose my sex fetishes.  
EB: i am a delicate flower.  
TT: Duly noted.  
EB: thank you.  
EB: secondly of all, i do not have any sex fetishes.  
EB: i just think that ghost busters is a hallmark of western cinema which defined a generation, and also that sliming people is a good and funny prank, which is wholesome and not horny.  
TT: I didn't even mention Ghostbusters, but you keep coming back to that.  
TT: The act of sliming has a broader pop cultural heritage, and from the context of the act itself as well as your age, I would figure the more immediate association would be Nickelodeon.  
TT: But Ghostbusters is very centrally masculine. Phallic in its imagery.  
TT: Is that where your psychosexual slime complex comes from? Sliming as a cipher for ejaculation?  
EB: there are no penises in ghost busters!  
EB: it is a family movie.  
TT: Is that your origin story? You watched Ghostbusters a few too many times at a formative sexual period of your life, and some psychological wires got crossed.  
TT: Ain't nothing to be ashamed of. It's a remarkable 21st century phenomenon which afflicts nearly every motherfucker on DeviantArt.  
EB: the only thing i am afflicted with is a great taste in movies, and a deep respect for the unflappable charisma of bill murray.  
TT: You want to fuck Bill Murray?  
EB: oh my god.  
TT: No, it's all starting to come together now.  
TT: You're just starting puberty, and your body has all this sexual energy and nowhere to direct it.  
TT: And Peter Venkman is exactly your type.  
TT: But you can't acknowledge that consciously, right. The internalized homophobia won't let you. You redirect your attraction as projection, or a wholesome heteromasculine respect. Bro 4 bro.  
TT: But you still got that pre-adolescent horniness boiling under the surface. And maybe you're a little too young to pick up on the fact that half the movie is dick jokes, but your subconscious knows.  
TT: So when Slimer ectosexually ravages Venkman and busts a big green ghost nut all over his droopy face, the adults in the audience laugh at the cum joke.  
TT: But you, who longs sincerely to bust a nut on Bill Murray, read that scene through the cryptex of your pre-pubescent libido.  
TT: Your brain parses the act of sliming as a hot, nasty facial.  
TT: And even though you're all grown up and your conscious mind has got all of its sexual shit in order, it's far too late to reverse that early, imprinted association.  
TT: You crossed the streams.  
TT: Now, scale of one to ten, how close was I? 

\-- ectoBiologist  [EB] blocked timaeusTestified  [TT] at 16:28 --

You do unblock him shortly after. (You’re not mad. You know he’s not making fun of you or judging you. You know the weird shit he’s into, and you remember weird shit he’s asked you to do. But the shame persists.) You go about the rest of your weekend, waiting for things to go back to normal. 

But the response never comes, and you worry the hard block might have been too harsh. So you reach out: 

\-- ectoBiologist [EB] began pestering timaeusTestified [TT] at 13:11 --

EB: hey, are you ok?  
EB: i'm sorry i blocked you. i'm not mad at you.  
EB: you haven't messaged me in a couple of days and i'm starting to get worried.  
TT: Sorry.  
TT: Didn't mean to ghost on you. I've been busy.  
TT: Working on something.  
TT: I'm actually almost done. You should come check it out.  
TT: I'll be waiting. 

\-- timaeusTestified [TT] ceased pestering ectoBiologist [EB] at 13:13 --

It’s irritatingly, almost frighteningly vague. But you know when he gets a wild hair like this and pitches days of single-minded work into something, he might neglect to take care of himself. So you go over to his place to make sure he isn’t dead, and you make the trek down into his work room. 

This is where your ultimate, transcendent moment of realization occurs, and you, no longer able to turn your eyes from the truth, achieve a nirvana of weird, sweaty self-acceptance. 

The first thing you notice is the tarp. 

The second thing you notice is the structure that’s been erected in the middle of the tarp—a simple plywood skeleton, about the size of a phone booth, with weights on its foundations to keep it upright. Mounted at its top is a five-gallon jug, like you’d find in a water cooler; inverted, with a plastic latch over its cap. The latch is wired, and the wires are pinned down to the plywood skeleton to keep them out of the line of fire. You follow those wires all the way over to the surface of Dirk’s workbench, where they’re plugged into a very small circuit board, and the circuit board is plugged into Dirk’s laptop, and there is Dirk himself, looking intently at the screen with his hands hovering just over the keyboard like he’s freshly finished with something. 

“Hey, what the fuck,” you say. 

He looks up at you. “Perfect,” he says. “Your timing is impeccable. I just finished.” He stands and motions grandly at the structure. 

“No offense,” you say, “but it looks like a torture device.” 

He looks at it thoughtfully for a second. “Well, it is. Depending on your definition of torture. I think most things are probably torture if you apply them to non-consenting parties.” He reaches out to you, holding something in his hand. “Not me, though. I’m down.” 

You take what he hands you. It’s a little handheld switch, with one red button. 

“What the hell is this,” you say. 

He nods meaningfully towards the plywood booth. “Push the button.” 

You push the button. 

The latch on the jug pops open and a spurt of thick green gunk pours out of it. Not just a little, either, but a gush of slime that spatters on the tarp with a wet _plap_ so suddenly that it makes you jump and drop the switch. As soon as you take your thumb off the button, the latch fastens back into place and the flood stops. The room is silent for a few seconds, save for the stray leftovers of slime dripping slowly off the rim of the jug. 

“Dirk,” you say, exasperated. He’s picking up the handheld switch as it rolls away, not looking at you. 

“Before you say anything, I already had most of the supplies just sitting around,” he says. “It’s a microcontroller and a couple of spare parts. Didn’t take more than a few hours to put together, and I didn’t have to buy anything. The slime, though—it took a little experimenting to get the right consistency—” 

“—Dirk—” 

“—not too much, and the ingredients are cheap if you get them in bulk. It’s mostly methylcellulose and a little propylene glycol, mixed with water, and a little powder paint for color—” 

“ _Dirk_ …” 

“—which isn’t toxic. Or at least it shouldn’t be. So long as you don’t drink the shit straight out of the jug like it’s an industrial cooler of Gatorade and you’re the Big Man fresh off a slam dunk in the end zone.” 

He hits the end of his long, meandering ramble and fidgets with the controller in his hand. He gives you a look. 

“This is so…” you trail off as you fish for the most appropriate reaction. “This is a lot. You didn’t have to do this.” 

“Didn’t have to, but I did. I have time on my hands and I wanted to…” He looks away. “You know, I wanted to make something that you could enjoy. You’re into slime bukkake, that’s cool. I’ll make you a slime bukkake machine.” 

You feel weird and shameful again. Your face feels hot. “Just because I have— _may or may not_ have—a _thing_ about slime doesn’t mean you have to be a part of it. It doesn’t have to be weird Deviant Art fetish sex hour all of the time. We can do normal human sex. You don’t have to force yourself to do my gross kink stuff.” 

“I’m not forcing myself, though,” Dirk says. “There are weirder, grosser things you could be into. I wanna get you off. I can stand to get slimed like it’s the fuckin’ Kids Choice Awards and I’m taking home the title for Outstanding Facial Cumshot.” 

“They don’t give out prizes for cum shots at the Kids Choice Awards,” you say. 

“What I’m saying is, if you’re into it, I’m into it.” He tosses the controller back to you and you only barely manage to catch it without fumbling. “If it’s that important to you, you can mix it up. Make it worth my while, if you know what I mean.” 

He takes off his shades and sets them aside on his work bench with the circuit board and his laptop, and he makes his way over to the slime booth. 

“You’re going to mess up your clothes,” you say. 

“Eh.” He looks down at his work outfit—a white tank and some athletic sweatpants—and then back up at you. “I’ll live. That’s part of the thrill for you, though, isn’t it? My nice, clean clothes getting all sopping wet and filthy. Defiled, even.” He rests his hands on the front pillars of the booth and cocks his hips a little, managing, as always, to somehow look insufferably smug even with his face as placid as ever. “Or would you rather I strip? Maybe it’s not just the slime doing all the erotic heavy lifting. Is that what you’re into? Me, totally nude, torrents of slime cascading over my—” 

You push the button. 

Dirk cuts off mid-sentence with a choked gasp as the jug spits a generous helping of slime directly over the top of his head. The sudden impact makes him hunch his shoulders a bit instinctively, but he stays frozen still besides, and you watch the sludge spill over him. It drapes over his face in waves, weighing down his hair, sticky strings of green sloughing over his shoulders and accumulating in the neckline of his shirt. You keep your thumb pressed tight over the button and watch the slime pile on so thick you can barely see the contours of his face beneath it. 

You let go of the button, and the stream stops. The excess drips steadily off Dirk’s hunched shoulders onto the tarp, stretching in long strings before it breaks. Slowly, silently, Dirk straightens his posture. He wipes his face clean (or clean enough, at least, to get a clear line of sight). And he gives you a look. 

You’ve got that uneasy, excited stirring in your gut again. You feel powerful. You’re eyeing up Dirk, all sticky and shiny and wet, and you get a head rush. 

“That was fair,” he says, trying in vain to wipe his hands clean on his shirt and only succeeding in spreading the goo all over his midsection. “This doing it for you, then? You into this?” 

You’re weak at the knees. 

“I think so,” you say slowly. 

You don’t know why. There’s something about flexing power over Dirk in this way that’s different from when he tries to get you to hold him down or push him around. You make a mess out of him and he’s willing and eager to let you. You humiliate him and he gets nothing out of it. And he’s going to let you do it again. 

You push the button and this time Dirk doesn’t flinch, but he clenches his eyes shut. It’s accumulating in thick layers over his chest now, down around his arms. That shirt is ruined. 

Before you can think about what you’re doing you’re on top of him, feeling him up with your free hand. You pull the collar of his shirt down and watch the slime defile new, naked patches of his chest. He rolls his head to the side and the stream of goo takes a more direct path down along his throat into his shirt. 

“How’s it feel?” you ask. 

“Cold,” he says, after wiping his mouth clean. “Wet. I feel like a nubile young anime woman getting a bad break in the tentacle monster dungeon.” 

“You look really hot,” you blurt out. 

He looks away and smiles a little bit, the way he does when you tell a joke he doesn’t want to acknowledge. “You wanna make out?” 

You twist your fist in the collar of his shirt and jerk him forward. His mouth falls open, pliant, and you take the invitation. There’s a thin film of sticky slime leftover around his mouth, a texture that you’d probably find unpleasant if you weren’t distracted trying to shove your tongue down his throat. He makes a soft little pleased noise into your open mouth and you feel him grab deftly at your crotch with his dirty, slimy hands and your body suddenly registers the heavy heat that’s been aching between your legs for a little while now. You moan back. 

You push the button again and he flinches hard against you as the cold stream of slime hits the back of his neck, rolling between his shoulders and down his spine. You can’t see it but you feel him clench his teeth instinctively. You grin against his mouth. 

He squeezes your cock through your shorts and starts fiddling with your fly. You put your hand on his shoulder and before you can even start pushing down he sinks eagerly to his knees. He looks up at you and his hair is all soaked and flat and clinging to his cheeks, big globs of slime dripping through it. You hear yourself breathing kind of heavy. He gives you a very slight little lopsided smile and the sound of your shorts unzipping bounces around loud in your head. 

He fishes your hard dick out of your shorts and gives it a steady stroke, lubed up by the slime on the palm of his hand. You gasp and mumble “ _fuck_ ” and he looks smugly up at you. 

Somehow it still feels like he’s the one stringing you along when he’s the one on his knees and covered in slime. 

He licks his lips and leans in and then he curls his tongue around the head of your cock, one hand still pumping along the length of your shaft. He parts his lips and takes you in, slowly, sinking you into the wet heat of his mouth inch by inch until, smoothly and almost effortlessly, he’s swallowed you all the way, his nose flush against your pubes. He swallows and you feel the walls of his throat flex tight around your dick and you make an involuntary sound that is, frankly, embarrassing. He shifts his posture a little, gripping your thighs to steady himself, and then he gets to work—pursing his lips around your shaft and sucking as he pulls back all the way til he’s just kissing the tip. You’re holding yourself back, your thighs taught and tense, toes curling in your socks. He’s all wet and sticky with clumps of green in his eyelashes and your dick in his mouth and it is too, too fucking much and your whole body is thrumming. 

You hit him with the slime again. It nails the back of his head and rolls in heavy waves over his shoulders. You thread your hands through his hair, now covered completely in a thick layer of radioactive green, and you push it all out of his face so he can look clear up at you while he sucks you off. There’s big globs of sludge between your fingers and you curl your hands tight against Dirk’s skull. 

You feel him relax his jaw and his fingers go lax against your legs. You take the hint. You hold his head steady and give a quick, sharp thrust of your dick down into his throat. He sighs and hums contentedly and the vibrations buzz through your cock. So you do it again, harder. 

Soon you’re gripping his hair while you fuck his mouth as roughly as you please, and he’s moaning softly with his mouth full every once in a while just to let you know how much he likes it, tongue writhing as much as he can manage against the underside of your cock. You’re only distantly aware of your own mouth hanging open, grunting and breathing heavy, losing control of yourself. 

You feel the tension building in the pit of your gut, your whole body pulled tight and ready to snap. Quickly, almost too roughly, you jerk his head back off your dick, a sloppy cord of spit still connecting his swollen lips to the head of your cock. 

“Open your mouth,” you mumble. The words are barely out before he follows, tilting his head back, eyes closed, lips parted with his tongue lolling obediently outward. 

You keep one hand twisted in his hair and start jerking yourself off with the other, rough and frantic, pulling yourself towards the edge. You hit that peak and you gasp, your dick spewing a thick load of cum right over Dirk’s face, and he flinches just a little at the impact. You keep pumping yourself through your orgasm and you spill on him over and over again, over his open mouth and his closed eyes, layering over the thin, shiny sheen of slime. 

You’re still panting as your high slows and subsides, stilling your hand on your dick and admiring the complete fucking mess you have made out of Dirk. He closes his mouth and dutifully swallows as much of your orgasm as you could land in his mouth. You see his shoulder shifting rhythmically, and down between his legs he’s feeling himself up, kneading at the outline of his hard-on through his wet sweatpants. 

You nudge his chest and he falls backward, lying flat on the sticky puddle of green goo on the tarp, leaving himself all open and vulnerable for you. You get up close to him, down on your knees, and without any finesse or gentleness you smack his hand away and pull the waistband of his sweatpants and boxer briefs down. His cock springs out into the open air and you grab it. He makes a quiet noise of encouragement at you and you start pulling him off, fast and rough, straddling his thigh. He lays with his arms splayed like a ragdoll and his fingers twitch and curl into his palm. He bites his lip and makes heady, happy little noises through his nose, building up in pitch as his spine arches and his hips jerk fruitlessly up into your hand. He bucks and keens and cums hard all over his own stomach and his soiled, wet shirt, and you keep steadily jerking him off through it, watching his muscles jerk and stutter with his haggard breathing. 

Eventually he’s done, and you’re done, and you roll back off him, flat on your ass, boneless and exhausted on the tarp. There’s still aftershocks of excitement pulsing against your skull as you stare up at the ceiling. You hear Dirk across from you, much the same, breathing heavy and trying to collect his wits. 

You heave yourself up into a sitting position. Dirk is a mess, lying flat on the floor, half-naked, covered from his head to his thighs in sticky green shit with your load gluing one of his eyes shut. It’s still kind of hot, but in your post-orgasmic haze you’re too tired to get excited about it, so it just makes you laugh. 

He props himself up on his elbows and opens his good eye to look at you. 

“You got slime on your dick,” he says. 

You look down and there are indeed stray globs of goo on your shaft. 

You retaliate, “you got nut in your eye.” 

He laughs. “Fuck yeah,” he says, wiping his eye clean with the ball of his thumb. “That’s how you know I did it right.” 

You just sit on the messy tarp for a while, enjoying what you’ve done to each other as you wait for your weak, noodly limbs to solidify. 

Dirk’s the one who finally says “We should probably take a shower.” 

You giggle and grin and you push yourself upright, and you hold a hand out to Dirk to help him up. 

Dirk assures you that the slime is water-soluble and will not fuck up your pipes. So you both climb into your shower. It takes a lot of needling but he eventually caves and lets you wash his hair—and it’s an odd arrangement with the height disparity between you, but you make it work: you sitting bare-assed on the rim of the tub while he reclines between your thighs, his long legs folded up against the wall, his back and shoulders up against your torso. You pick stray chunks of green out of his hair and work the shampoo into a thick lather, and he sits quietly and patiently under the spray of hot water and lets you spoil him. 

“Thank you,” you say while you’re gently massaging his scalp. He hums back. “How long did you spend on that?” 

“Including planning and getting the supplies… only about a day. But a full day. I’ve worked harder on dumber shit.” 

“That’s still a lot of work.” 

“It’s no big.” He lays his shampooed head back against your chest. “I’ll get my payback. In due time.” 

Your hands freeze in his hair. “Wow, that is the most terrifying way you could have possibly phrased that,” you say. 

But you laugh, and he laughs back, and you go back to fussing over him, molding his shampooed hair into funny shapes. 

You hear him say, softly, quietly enough that it’s nearly drowned out by the din of the shower, “You’re too good to me.” 

You crane his head all the way back til he’s looking up at you, and you kiss him on his forehead. 

“You are an absolute tool,” you say firmly, looking him dead in the eyes. “And I love you very much.” 

He relents and sags back against you, relaxed, and you finish your work, scrubbing and pampering him until he’s all clean.


End file.
